“Well, you see, so much lies in a nutshell,” she explained. “I remember when I shook hands with the emperor he forgot to release my hand. I think he was engaged on matters of state, so it was perhaps excusable. On that occasion I was wearing a toilet which was a simple creation of beauty, though made at home and without assistance. I remember my train was badly torn through his mental aberration.” “But you had the other hand at liberty?” “Well, you see it happened most unfortunately that the grand vizier (I think it was the grand vizier) had taken possession of my other hand, and he also was engrossed by state calculations. It would have been a pity to disturb two such eminent gentlemen from so sacred a reverie, so I waited, and afterwards they were obliged to pay the cost of the spoilt robe.” “Which, taken from the point of view of the nutshell, was your reputation.” “Not at all. I have no reputation. I am above it.” “And what did your husband say about this extensive handshaking?” “He never said a word. But I think he was very cut up about the empress, he thought her so rude. And when she refused to look at me all the other women did too, and it made me quite low-spirited, because however much one _likes_ the society of men, one always _values_ the society of women, especially after they turn nasty. At last I could stand it no longer, therefore I came home and began to cry. After a while some of my friends called to see me, and we had the merriest evening possible, for we sent slaves to collect all the tears I had dropped on the way from earth to hell, and then we went on to the highest turret of the palace and threw them back on the earth again.” “Indeed.” “Yes. And the women who had spurned me gathered them up quickest, because they looked like glistening diamonds. And now they wear them, and when they wear them the men fall in love with them, and the women turn their backs on them, and sometimes they can’t understand it, but it is so.” Suddenly her voice changed from the monotone to one of bright and laughing interest. “Now give me a criticism on my story of shaking hands with royalty,” she challenged. “A cool criticism?” I asked. “If you can,” she answered, laughing. “Well, I should say it began with vulgarity and ended with a moral.” “Vulgarity?” “Yes.” “But it was a real live emperor. He couldn’t be vulgar if he tried. He never squeezed my hand once.” “Well, perhaps it was the introduction of the grand vizier.” “He never squeezed my hand either.” “Then perhaps it was yourself.” She got up and drew herself to that graceful height from which she looked down on most things around her. “Do I look vulgar?” she said. “No.” “Then shall I tell you what formed the vulgarity of which you speak?” “If you will,” I replied. “It was the atmosphere in which I moved.” “And what was that?” “Humanity.” She went away and left me thinking.